


Pandora's Box Discovered

by ChinVilla



Series: Pandora's Box [3]
Category: Chicago PD (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jay Halstead Whump, Past Child Abuse, Sexual Harrassment, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29654076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChinVilla/pseuds/ChinVilla
Summary: Cases with tender-aged assault victims always left him reeling. That latest case though, might just break him for it was the splitting image of his own nightmare from seventeen years ago. A nightmare that he tried so hard to forget.Jay-centric, set around late season 4, some time after episode 13 'I remember her now'.
Series: Pandora's Box [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100225
Comments: 24
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there folks. How's it going? I hope good.
> 
> Real life had it in for me lately. Some bad stuff happened, then some more bad stuff happened, then even more bad stuff happened... you get the drift. It all came to a grand finale when I had to unexpectedly decide whether or not to put down one of my chinchillas. It's not the first time I lost a pet, far from it actually but it all happened so fast that I barely had time to process what happened. Even a week later, I'm still in a bit of a daze.
> 
> That said, I know some of you are probably waiting for an update on 'The Birth of Worlds'. But with its main theme being grief and me currently still in the early stages of grieving, I find it incredibly hard to write about that. I'm working on it. An update will come within the next weeks, I promise. Just please be patient with me as I try to navigate through all the things that happened lately.
> 
> On a brighter note, I got my first Covid vaccination last Friday, so not everything is going downhill.
> 
> Anyway, I want to say a little bit about this story. This is part three of the 'Pandora's Box' series. It's a multi-chapter story but it won't be too long. Probably around three chapters or so. You don't necessarily have to have read the previous installments to the series but it might be helpful to understand certain developments and references.
> 
> Reader's discretion advised. Rated M for mentions of sexual abuse of minors. There's also some coarse language in there.
> 
> Here it goes.

"Flynn Baker, thirteen. Found him in the…"

His voice was already hitching, betraying him in his effort to deliver a matter-of-fact account of recent events. The first sign that he was barely keeping it together. ' _Damn.'_ But this was a small bump in the road, right? A miniscule hesitation that maybe neither of the two seasoned cops in front of him would notice. "…i-in the… the showers." Okay, now the stutter they most certainly heard. Maybe it was more than just a small bump, after all. The unbidden images were too vivid, too nauseating, hitting way too close to home.

Shaking his head in a single jerky motion did nothing to get rid of them. He harrumphed. "Unconscious but breathing," he continued unsteadily, and his lungs grasped the opportunity to remind him that he was required to do the same: breathe. Inhale, exhale. Simple as that. So, he sucked in much-needed air, chest rising as his starved respiratory tract inflated. "Obvious signs of…" This time it was undeniably more than just a hitch, more than a small bump. It was a full-on stop, a violent jolt that stole away the breath he had just taken. ' _Here we go.'_ His voice cracked and faded into a high-pitched wheeze as he choked out the concluding words. "…s-sexual a-abuse."

Wanting to run his fingers through his hair or over his face, do something with it, anything really to hide his nerves, he unclenched his fist and raised it. But upon realizing how much the hand was trembling, he hastily stuffed it and its left twin under his armpits, away from the ever-observant eyes of both his sergeant and the senior detective currently standing in front of him. He didn't want either of them to see. He'd worked his ass off to earn at least a rudimentary level of approval from them. Then again, showing such obvious signs of weakness, stuttering his way through staccato-ed scraps of his report like a rookie on the first crime scene of his career, might have already sealed his fate and stripped him of the ounce of hard-won respect they had for him.

Besides, who was he kidding anyway? They were investigators for Christ's sake, damn good ones at that. Even if they had missed the tremor running through his hands, they would have at least been aware of his ashen face, the haunted look in his eyes, and the goosebumps crawling up his pale freckled arms. The latter was especially conspicuous due to the flagrant absence of his lined black sweater and feathered down jacket, both of which he had hardly even shed in the cozy warmth of the office lately for he was constantly feeling chilled to the bone. Yet here he was, clad only in a too thin navy-blue t-shirt that did nothing to protect him against Chicago's crisp March air. If he hadn't already been sick with a cold before, he sure as hell was going to catch one now. Not that he minded. Preserving undeserving Flynn's dignity was worth every miserable sneeze and sniffle he might take away from this. And he'd do it again and again in a heartbeat should he find another kid like this. Frankly, the chances of that stood rather high with their current case.

A strong breeze made him shiver. He hugged himself a tad tighter, ducking his head and raising his shoulders to shield himself against the biting wind, stifling a cough in the short sleeve of his tee. Missing the meaningful sideways glance Voight and Olinsky shared as he tried to recompose himself and prepare for the onslaught of questions that he was sure would come any second now. Instead of taking him to the cleaners, though, the sergeant asked just one, a hint of dread lacing his gruffly voice. "What signs?" Alas, it was the wrong one to ask.

Precursory hot saliva filled his mouth as the query immediately sent him back to the scene that he wished nothing more than to wipe from his memory. The disturbing images flashed before his eyes, causing bile to inch up his esophagus at rapid speed. He swallowed forcefully. Once, twice, three times, his Adam's apple bopping up and down in sync. ' _Get a grip!'_ he scolded himself. No way in hell was he going to add to his humiliation by presenting his superiors a free sample of what he had or much rather hadn't eaten for breakfast. Not that there was much to show. Mostly coffee. Nothing but coffee for days. But still. Grinding his teeth and clamping his mouth into a thin angry line, he was deeply engrossed in keeping from vomiting.

"Hey!" Someone bellowed, flicking their fingers in front of him. "Halstead!" Jay's head shot up, eyes blinking but not quite meeting those of his pesterer. Instead, they zoomed in on a speck of dust on Hank's shoulder, the tiny white fleck standing out against the grey leather jacket for some reason bothering him more than his boss' urgent roar. Another snap of fingers, within an inch of his left eye this time, made him flinch. "What signs?" the sergeant repeated, words tinged with impatience and annoyance, his faces a hair's breadth away from his.

Jay could feel the older man's warm breath on his skin and he ever so fleetingly flashed back to when he was thirteen years old. A shudder rippled through him and he instinctively took a step back, forcing himself to inhale and exhale in a slow and steady rhythm. They came out way faster than he would have liked though, and while he wasn't quite there yet he realized he was well on his way to hyperventilating. Great. So much for getting his shizzle together. Whatever respect they might have had for him was surely gone out the window now.

Noticing the former ranger's increasing distress, Voight immediately backed off a little, exchanging an alarmed look with Olinsky, silently urging him to take over. The lower-ranked officer returned the twitch of the eye in understanding and semi-crouched down in front of their shivering colleague. "Jay," he addressed him, tone unthreatening and even-keeled as was the dark-haired man's nature. The younger detective's eyes shifted slightly towards him, Al's cue to continue. "The signs. Were they the same as with the others?" he asked quietly, resorting to the same gentleness he would when talking to a child. O didn't have to specify whom he was referring to; they all knew he was talking about the other three assaulted boys preceding Flynn.

The brunette closed his eyes briefly, an anguished grimace crossing over his features. Not trusting his voice enough to verbalize a confirmation, he merely offered a singly impalpable nod. Catching the miniscule motion, Voight couldn't help but champ with barely concealed rage, unaware of the way the former ranger tensed and hunched into himself even more. "Show me where you found him." The growl was dangerously low.

Momentarily forgetting the defensive stance of his subordinate, he grabbed for Halstead's biceps to drag him along to the gym hall where the crime had supposedly taken place. A grand mistake, because as soon as his hand touched the freezing skin, Jay violently recoiled as if burned, shoving him away in panic. Unexpecting of such a strong reaction, Hank staggered back a bit but kept his balance. He raised his brows in surprise, tilting his head and studying the agitated man standing frozen in shock a few feet away. If possible, he was hugging himself even tighter than before, whole body quaking uncontrollably and eyes wide with horror.

Jay's lips moved but no sound came out, so he swallowed. "I… I'm sorry, I… I can't…" he stammered, voice thick and husky. He coughed once to clear his clogged throat and snuffed messily before trying to finish the sentence. "I can't go in there again, Sarge," he rushed out, hating how weak and afraid he sounded. Extracting one of his hands from under his armpits, he ran it through his hair at last. At this point he no longer cared whether Voight and Olinsky noticed the pronounced tremor. It wasn't like it mattered anymore anyway. He'd already made a fool out of himself, acting like a scaredy-cat. He huffed self-deprecatingly. Some cop he was. Whoever had pinned that star on his chest must have been out of their Goddamn mind entrusting such a huge responsibility on him.

Risking meeting Hank's eyes, his own flitted towards the man's face but chickened out at the last second. He couldn't face the disappointment and the disgust he was sure to find in there, saw it every day in his reflection in the mirror. While that was bad enough, it was ten times worse seeing it in someone whom he looked up to. Or worst: hearing him say it. He needed to get out of here before that happened or he was sure he was going to crumble. Uttering another pathetic apology, he turned on his heels and fled the scene with hurried steps, two pairs of deeply concerned eyes following him.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there folks!
> 
> First off, I’m so sorry for the confusion if you received a wrongful email alert earlier. I accidentally uploaded a previous version of this chapter but didn’t notice until after I had already updated the story. So, I took it down and went to correct my mistake, grasping the opportunity to smooth out some halting sequences in the process, which is why it took a few hours to upload the right version.
> 
> Secondly, thank you for your reviews and all the kind words you left on the first chapter. Your support and understanding means so much to me right now. With everything that’s been going on in my life, my confidence in my writing took a bit of a beating, but reading your comments helps rebuild it.
> 
> I hope this next installment will be received as well as the first. I’m incredibly nervous about it and not just because of the topic it entails. Fair warning, there’s a flashback that is rather graphic and not for the faint-hearted.
> 
> That said, this chapter is purely introspective. I know that’s not everyone’s cup of tea but it’s necessary to shed some light on how and why the case affects Jay so much.
> 
> Alright, that’s it for an author’s note. Here’s the chapter.

Cases with tender-aged assault victims always left him reeling.

If anyone would ever ask him to describe just how those types of crimes made him feel, Detective Halstead would have a plethora of adjectives at the tip of his tongue, all of them ranging somewhere on a spectrum between anger and fear.

On the surface, on the job, anger was predominant. Tetchy, belligerent, downright apoplectic – those were the words that best applied to the way he pursued respective investigations. He might have an exceptionally high moral compass, one that demanded that he always play things by the books. Still, when sexual abuse was involved, he allowed himself to stray from his scrupulously correct ways and go just a little rogue.

Jay held no empathy for and had no mercy with sex offenders of any kind and it showed when he approached suspects and tackled interrogations. There was next to no self-control to be had until they were behind bars. In his opinion, they couldn’t be taken off the street fast enough. Which was ultimately why he gladly volunteered to do the grunt work and put his boots on the ground, explored every angle and theory, no matter how farfetched they might seem. He sank his teeth in, refused to let go until valid leads and solid evidence locked those scummy fleabags away. He’d do anything to let justice prevail. After all, they deserved to rot in hell.

Fury was without question his driving motor, the emotion that fueled his motivation and kicked him into action by cranking up the adrenaline levels in his system. For the duration of those cases, rest was an alien concept for him. Getting closure for the poor victimized souls was the sole priority, and it was well worth running himself ragged and risk one of his full-fledged meltdowns. Not that there was a way to prevent those; the initial adrenaline rush was always followed by an adrenaline crash, his premonition to prepare himself for the simmering panic attack. He knew how it went, had suffered his fair share of those over the years – after Ben, after Ethan, after Ellie, and so many others before, in between and after.

At this point, he had learned to hang onto slivers of energy reserves, just long enough to get through debriefings and burn through the paperwork. But once he went through all the motions there was no more delaying, much less stopping the inevitable. Spent and depleted and bereft of all his previous rage it was in those aftershocks that the sheer terror trickled back into existence. Starting as a faint drizzle of fleeting thoughts and images right after an arrest, rapidly growing into a steady deluge once all t’s were crossed and all i’s were dotted before cumulating in a monsoon of his nightmarish memories on his way home.

Jay knew it was coming, surrendered himself to the fact that he would eventually end up on the floor, a sobbing pile of gooey limbs in a sogging puddle of his own torrential tears, reduced to the thirteen-year-old version of himself sitting behind a dumpster in a deserted alley. The only difference being that he had graduated from shabby and shady backyards to the luxurious solitude and comfort of his own apartment, or, if he couldn’t stall long enough, somewhere equally reclusive.

Sequestration was a prerequisite before handing over the reins to the undercurrent fear. Halstead had sworn to himself that no one was ever to witness his breakdowns or accidentally discover his deepest darkest secrets. No one must ever know how skittish, how terrified, how shaky on his pins he really was whenever he dealt with cases of molestation and rape, and they especially didn’t need to know about the reason why. While he was aware that keeping his past locked away in a box and buried under layers of anger wasn’t healthy in the slightest, denial was the only fail-safe coping mechanism he had ever known since his teenage years. That and self-blame. Neither had foundered him before.

Hence his surprise when it all came to naught.

In hindsight, he should have expected it. No less than a month of back-to-back assault cases, at least half of them dealing with sexual abuse of minors, had certainly rattled the sturdy fortress Jay had erected around himself all those years ago. Four weeks going on five with not a single off-day had slowly contributed to the corrosion of brick after brick without the prospect of restoring the decaying walls. So, what started with a small crack in the plaster right after his undercover gig at Brady had turned into a Swiss cheesed Jenga tower ready to collapse with the removal of just one more slab. And as it turned out, finding Flynn was the determining piece which caused it all to crumble, leaving him in shambles and with his emotions stripped bare.

Much the same as Coach Beckett as he ripped away the towel, the solitary barrier covering his private parts, and exposed him to the intrusive fondles and grapples of coarse meaty claws all over again. Jay’s stomach lurched as phantom sensations of the vulgarizing invasion of his privacy prickled and tingled like tiny needles all over his body. Undesirable memories surfaced before his eyes, very recent pictures of Flynn intermingling in a concatenation of images, and in a flash, he found himself back at the crime scene from an hour ago.

…

_A faint strangled whimper. The rustling of clothes. Groans. Grunts. Moans. Halstead was instantly on high alert, hair standing on end, panic rising._

_Keying his radio to request assistance, the young detective stealthily made his way down the hall, sidearm already in hand. His footsteps reverberated the walls and inadvertently alerted the offender. The heavy breathing stopped immediately, a dull thud sounded, then the shuffling of feet as the perp hastily scurried towards and out the backdoor of the gym. Jay took up pursuit, but the guy was already in the wind and nowhere to be seen by the time he reached the exit. He cursed. Bellowing instructions and an indistinct description of what little he had seen of the scum into his two-way, he hurried back inside in search of the victim._

_He found him in the boys locker room. The sight that greeted him once he rounded the corner into the adjacent communal showers instantly made his blood run cold. Curled up in a shivering heap on the floor was the source of the gut-wrenching whines he had heard moments before. The skinny figure looked no older than twelve, maybe even younger in his state of undress. Bright red hand-shaped bruises covered almost every inch of skin below the belt line, most prominent around his hips and the area between his legs. Fresh trails of blood running down his inner thighs painted a vivid picture of all the horrible things that had just been done to him. Things, that seventeen years ago he himself had narrowly escaped._

_For a moment, Jay just stood there frozen in shock, staring at the lifeless form on the ground, unseeing. The scene temporarily morphed into a similar one from when he was roughly the same age as the kid, in an equal state of paralysis as he found himself in now. But he didn’t allow himself to drift off into the terrifying memories of his own past._

_Shaking himself out of his palsy, Halstead sprung back into action, trembling hands wrestling with the Velcro of his vest, cursing when the patches kept sticking to one another. It took a few tries but at last he succeeded, discarding the item somewhere to his right before dropping on the wet tiles beside the drenched, quivering body. At this point, the boy was no longer conscious. Jay considered it a blessing for it spared him the mortification that came with the awareness that someone, anyone saw him in his current predicament. Nevertheless, he wasted no time shrugging out of his jacket and sweater, draping one over the teenager’s midsection while wrapping the other around the tiny frame. It was a small gesture but one that would provide at least an ounce of dignity, even if the kid weren’t aware of it._

_Everything after was a haze. Halstead vaguely recalled fumbling for his radio to request an ambulance. He barely even remembered picking up the unconscious bundle, carrying him outside or handing him over to the waiting paramedics, all the while whispering nonsensical reassurances. Comforts that were meant for him just as much as they were for the victim, which was why he silently continued repeating them like a mantra even after the ambo drove off. He hardly even registered the arrival of his unit, his brief interaction with Voight and Olinsky the only part of it all that remained vivid in his head._

_Other than that, there was one thing and one thing only that he could focus on throughout it all: the painful familiarity of it all. The assailant, the site of the crime, the whole set-up of it. And the kid. All the way down to his age and appearance, this could have been him. Seventeen freaking years ago, this could have– no, should have been him!_

…

The images sent him into another round of painful retching. Rolling convulsions that brought up nothing more than spews of what little acidic gall was left in him. Not that there had been much to begin with aside from the bitter dregs of his morning coffee and digested remnants of meager meals from over two days or so ago, and those had long since found their way back into the bowl and down the pipes.

It seemed like an eternity until the spasms finally ceased. The incessant loop of dry heaving ebbed into a wheezy coughing fit so weak that it more like resembled jerky puffs of hot air. A single miserable sobby hiccup ended it all. He managed a shaky inhale, then another, and another, eventually easing into a semi-steady breathing rhythm. Jay sank back on his heels but found he was still too weak to remain upright. Sluggishly extracting his feet from under him he slumped back against the parting wall in utter exhaustion. He rested his head there for a moment, allowing himself a period of grace. Taking shallow breaths through the nose as not to provoke another puking marathon.

At last, he pushed himself up, using the toilet seat for support as jelly legs threatened to buckle under his weight and a wave of dizziness nearly brought him to his knees again. He leaned against the partition with his shoulder and waited for the room to stop spinning. Blood roared in his ears and his head felt like it was about to explode but he ignored both as he staggered over to the sink on unsteady limbs. Shaking hands curled around the rim of the basin in a white-knuckled grip the instant he reached the vanity, vertigo returning with a vengeance just from walking the short distance. He closed his eyes for a second but that didn’t help matters either, so he opened them again.

Jay’s gaze accidentally landed on the mirror and he flinched. The man staring back at him was a pitiful sight: ghostly white, eyes puffy and bloodshot, skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He barely recognized himself anymore, was disgusted by his own utterly miserable appearance. After all, he had no right to be this shaken up over something that had never happened to him. He had no right to wallow in self-pity because he had never been violated in the way Flynn had, in the way Ben and Ethan and Collin and Ellie had. He’d been lucky. Compared to them he’d been lucky enough to get away before anything could happen to him. He wasn’t a victim for Christ’s sake, not a _real_ victim anyway, so why was he acting and reacting like one when he couldn’t possibly know what it was like? God, why was he so pathetic?

Unable to look at his own paltry reflection, he averted his eyes. He would have swung a fist, but he was too drained, too weakened from all the vomiting to even raise it and wasn’t that just another testament to how laughable he really was? His father would have a field day if he saw him like that right now. The old man had known it all along, had reminded him of it every chance he got. He should have listened to him back then; it sure would have saved him from a lot of beatings and heartbreak. Or maybe it wouldn’t have, he didn’t know.

Tears pricked behind his eyes and he angrily wiped them away. Turning the water on, he splashed some into his face. After the initial shock as the cold liquid touched his burning skin, he relished the way it alleviated the incessant throbbing of his head. He repeated the act a few times, letting the water trail down his nose and cheeks and eventually drip back into the sink where it mingled with the steady stream from the faucet. It was mesmerizing but the swirling motion made him queasy again, so he proceeded rinsing his mouth before turning the water off. Using the hem of his shirt to dry off most of his face, he shuffled over to the door with uncoordinated moves.

He had no idea how much time had passed since he had stormed into the district in a frantic haste to reach the nearest bathroom – which just so happened to be a small single stall behind the front desk that was usually only used by the sergeant’s managing it – but he figured the rest of his team would be back soon.

After his abrupt departure from the scene, he could only imagine what Voight would do to him. A stern dressing-down was the least he could expect, though he doubted he’d get off this easy. Considering how much he had screwed up earlier, this might just be his last strike, the mistake that ultimately got him shunned from the unit. Maybe if he got a head start before Hank returned, maybe if he had his statement fully written and signed on the man’s desk, maybe if he provided a lead that would help them catch the dirtbag whom he had so graciously let escape from the scene, the man would at least allow him to stay long enough to see this case through. He hoped to God, he wouldn’t be kicked before because while it would be hard to accept that he was no longer a part of Intelligence, it would be beyond unacceptable not to get justice for Flynn and the three boys before him. He wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt.

With one final fleeting glance into the mirror and that thought at the forefront of his mind, he unlocked the door and exited the bathroom. Time to face the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we will see some interaction and dialogue again, I promise, so please don’t give up on the story just yet.
> 
> As always, stay safe and healthy.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took way longer to upload than I thought. I’m involved in opening a new care facility and we’re in this weird month-long pre-opening phase now where everything is just kinda wild and crazy. It’s all super exciting and just what I need after all the drama of the previous weeks and months.
> 
> I welcome the changes with open arms, but I must admit it tampered with my writing these past few days. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve rewritten this chapter. Whenever I was ready to post it, there was something I wasn’t happy with. Now, I’m somewhat satisfied with the outcome even though there’s suddenly a flashback in here that was never even supposed to be in this story, but with it in there I feel like this story links in even better with the rest of the series.
> 
> Anyway, enough of my rambling. I hope you like this chapter.
> 
> Floopdeedoopdee, this one is for you. And for everyone else who enjoyed the Trudy/Jay dynamic in my story ‘Chuckles’. (And of course, for everyone else, too.) Enjoy!

“Jeez, Chuckles. Put some clothes on, will ya? This is a police station, not a strip club.”

It was exactly the kind of greeting everyone anticipated and feared from the desk sergeant. Blunt, dripping with sarcasm, and quite humbling, too. Everyone who worked with Platt started to ignore the quips after a while and would eventually counter with their own witty rebuttals. Jay had been amongst those who had taken a bit longer to feel comfortable with the back-and-forth banter, but after three and a half years Trudy considered him one of her favorite verbal sparring partners. He jumped at every opportunity to correct her whenever she called him by his moniker letting her know that it was _‘Detective_ Chuckles if you please’ and he was never shy of a saucy remark, even when she went blue. Complete with one of those unbelievably charming, mischievous lopsided grins that made his green eyes twinkle and brought out the crow’s feet wrinkles of carefree amusement. If she were twenty years younger and not married, she’d be absolutely smitten.

Today, all the above were missing. There was no playful repartee – the expected ‘only in your dreams, Sarge’ was replaced by eerie silence – and there was no smile either, not even a faint upwards curl of one corner of his mouth. In its stead she was met with a blank mask, as if someone had closed the shutters on his usually so expressive facial play. Halstead didn’t so much as glance in her direction as he stumbled into the precinct looking like a terribly inaccurate impersonation of the American flag. Chalk-white complexion, red-rimmed eyes, bluish-tinted lips, with goosebumps imitating the stars. Jay bolted past her desk and down the hallway, leaving her to stare after his disappearing form, flabbergasted and with trepidation settling in the pit of her stomach.

Worrying wasn’t something the desk sergeant did a whole lot of. Few things were worth making a fuss about. If one just let them, most issues tended to resolve themselves on their own, anyway. But she knew that petty things had the potential to grow into bigger problems, which was why she never fully brushed it off whenever the pesky uneasiness sought refuge with her. She remained alert and observant, just in case something raised red flags. And flags were most definitely raised by Halstead’s unusual behavior.

Granted, they hadn’t been red from the start, were more of a marigold shade of yellow when she first noticed that something was off. The young detective had been tenser and more on edge. He’d become quieter too, succinctly tinging the flags in a bright tangerine, then a rusty orange as he withdrew into himself more and more. Now, they were alight in a burning fire red. The gradual turning of colors almost resembled a gorgeous sunset, though it quickly lost its appeal to Trudy once she bore to mind what would inevitably follow. It was that pull of the impending darkness after the sun vanished behind the horizon, the prospect of seeing the already dimmed lights go out in one of the brightest cops she’d ever seen that set Platt’s antennae quivering.

If she read the signs right, he might have already reached the very edge of the terrifying black hole at this point. She needed to intervene before he plummeted straight into the all-consuming void, preferably sooner rather than later.

On cue, almost like cruel joke on her telling her that she was too late, distinctive sounds of awful retching echoed from where Jay had disappeared to. Trudy grimaced upon hearing the revolting acoustics, but stifling concern implored her to check on her Detective Chuckles. She skimmed the foyer, looking for one of the more seasoned patrol officers that were well acquainted with all the bureaucratic procedures, thankfully spotting one currently amid filling out paperwork. “Maxwell,” she addressed the middle-aged man, waving him over with an impatient slight of her hand once she had his attention, “man the desk for me for a minute, will ya?” A minute would prove to be a grand understatement, but she really couldn’t care less.

Not even waiting for Maxwell’s confirmation, Platt set out on her mission to track the gurgling sounds. They led her straight to the small restroom down the hall. Wet sloshes of projectile vomiting got louder the closer she came to the door on the far right, though they already ceased into even viler choky heaves of someone who was frantically trying to emit gastric content that had long since left him. The chokes were absolutely disgusting but once one was at this stage the end was usually nigh, so Trudy optimistically endured listening to them. However, the quite literally gut-wrenching phase dragged on and on, and once it reached its twenty-minute mark, the desk sergeant was seriously tempted to pick the lock to aid the poor miserable soul trapped in this never-ending cycle of regurgitation. But she knew there was nothing she could do to help him, nothing that would make any of it more bearable. He’d just have to ride it out, and so she’d have to do the same.

Feeling uncharacteristically powerless, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her pants and started pacing, occasionally checking her watch. The entire throw-up session lasted just past half an hour. Trudy listened to every painful splutter, to every wheezy cough, and with every passing second, she found herself more terrified for the young man. The current incident aside, Jay had been sick for weeks now – not that he’d ever admit to it – but the extent and intensity of this disgorgement could no longer be explained by food poisoning or a simple stomach bug. Something else brought this on, she was sure of that, though she had no idea what it was.

An utterly heartbreaking sob put a tight squeeze on her, but once she realized that it signaled the end of his excruciating convulsions, relief flooded her veins. Silence filtered through the thin walls, disturbed only by the sporadic hitched breath. Another handful of minutes passed, and her worry as well as the urge to break into the room flared up once more. But then the toilet flushed, feet shuffled and the sound of running water from the sink followed. At last, she heard the click of the lock, and a haggard figure practically fell through the door.

The sight that greeted Trudy was shocking to say the least: burst blood vessels meandered like tiny red rivers in the white of glassy, tear-dimmed eyes. Cheeks were sunken in as if meteors had ripped deep craters into them, and the usually tidily kempt hair looked like a hurricane had swept through it. A few stray strands at his hairline dripped water onto his face, trickling down his nose and chin. His dark shirt was soaked with cold sweat, and the way it stuck to his torso faintly outlined his ribcage, attesting to worrisome weight loss. Not that he had any weight to lose in the first place; Halstead was too thin as it was. Along with the clamminess and greyish tint of his skin – even his freckles appeared much paler than usual – he looked like death had warmed over.

“Oh my…” Platt gasped out at the wretched appearance, eyes wide and serious. The quiet exclamation startled Jay into a hard flinch, messing with his already decrepit equilibrium. His hand shot out to grab the wooden doorframe, but he wasn’t fast enough to prevent an ungainly collision of his shoulder blade with the sharp edge. It would surely leave a bruise. However, any pain it elicited was eradicated by his festering panic. “Easy,” Trudy cooed, alarmed by his rather extreme reaction, and raised her hands in a placative gesture. “You okay?”

Genuine concern colored the desk sergeant’s words, causing the young detective to look at her, his forehead furrowed in confusion. “Why…” he trailed off when the word came out as the breathiest of whispers. Clearing his throat, he tried again, though his voice remained rough and was intercepted with a crackle that reminded him of one of his grandfather’s old dusty phonograph records. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he counterquestioned. Belatedly realizing that his death grip on the door belied his contrived casualness, he forced himself to let go and pulled himself upright. The movement cost him tremendous effort but at last he managed to stand without the support of the frame, eyes already scanning the hall and planning his escape.

Trudy was blatantly aware of his intentions though. Arms akimbo she planted herself in the middle of the narrow hallway, effectively blocking his path. “Oh, I don’t know,” she feigned ignorance, slouching her upper body in an unthreatening stance as she shrugged innocently. “Maybe because you just puked your guts out for thirty minutes?” Jay’s eyes bulged in horror. Obviously, he hadn’t been aware of how much time he’d spent bent over the porcelain God. “Loud enough to entertain the entire floor, I’m sure.” He gulped, face contorting in utter mortification. “Hate to break it to you, Chuckles, but I doubt your audience enjoyed the performance very much. If you go out there right now, you’ll probably reap a few boos.”

A faint blush of embarrassment crept into his cheeks. He needed the color back in his sickly complexion, but the reddish streaks gave him a feverish glow and it only added to the misery already etched onto his face. Scratch catcalls. He’d be guaranteed tons of looks of pity, instead, something that Platt knew he wouldn’t take well. Determined to protect him from those, she urged, “lucky for you, I know a great hiding spot down here. You can wait there until the razzmatazz is over.” Waving an arm, she invited him to follow her. “Come on.”

But Jay remained rooted to the spot. “Sarge,” he started hesitantly, the single syllable yet another hoarse croak. It stopped Trudy in her steps. Turning around, she raised her eyebrows, jerking her head impatiently. Intimidated by her piercing stare, Halstead lowered his gaze and shifted his feet uneasily. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, a defiant but protective gesture. “I, uh… can’t. I must go upstairs. The case is waiting, and I need to…” he argued but Platt wouldn’t let him finish.

“What you need is to sit down for a minute before you nosedive right onto this floor and get some water in your system,” she admonished, beseechingly. “You may not be under my direct command but I’m still in charge of the district which ultimately makes you my responsibility, whether you like it or not.” _‘Not much longer,’_ Jay’s torturing mind supplied needlessly, eliciting a painful twinge in his chest. He instinctively tightened his entangled arms, hands clenching into fists. “I could always make this an order.” He huffed, almost finding her words amusing. Almost. Between the desk sergeant’s implicit threat and the very real risk of having nothing to show in terms of new leads once Voight returned to the office, he considered the latter the greater evil. Then again, Trudy could be scary too.

Noticing his inner turmoil, Platt took a few steps back in his direction, heaving a sigh. “Halstead, your dedication to the job is admirable but you’re no use to anybody if you collapse from exhaustion or worse, dehydration.” Admirable? He? How could she even think that? There was not a single admirable bone in his body, so, really, the words ‘admirable’ and ‘Jay Halstead’ shouldn’t ever be used in the same sentence. He was weak and pathetic, that’s what he was. However, he had to agree with her about one thing: he was no use to anybody, though the way he saw it, he was no use to anybody, period.

The former ranger threw his head back, wanting to laugh but only an unsuccessful snort came out. Dropping his chin onto his chest instead, he shook his head. There it was again, that dangerous combination of anger, self-hatred, and unbearable guilt. The supreme spawn of the all-encompassing self-destructive nature of his thoughts, ready to tear down the scaffolding that he’d raised haphazardly with all his might to stabilize the still fragile walls right before he exited the bathroom. He loathed them, loathed them almost as much as he loathed himself.

“Jay,” Trudy intercepted his thoughts, advancing him where he was still standing in front of the bathroom door. “Do this old gal here a favor and come sit with me, just for a minute. Please.” There was something strangely pleading in her too gentle alto timbre that made him shiver. Something in the way she said those words was painfully familiar. It took a moment for him to place it, but once he could, it plopped the bombshell of a long-forgotten memory right into his lap.

…

_“There you are.” Her feeble yet saintly voice called. The thirteen-year-old slowed his steps, feeling like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar for no reason. He stopped as he became level with the open door leading into his parents’ bedroom, lingering on the threshold as he glanced at her through long lashes. “Come in here for a minute,” she nudged, patting the chair that was standing right by her side of the bed. “Sit with me, will you?” she entreated. The teenager’s left brow twitched, confused by the rather unusual request. Noticing his hesitation, the woman added a heartfelt “please.”_

_Her pleading tone made him anxious, yet he found himself unable to say no to her, so he dragged his feet over to her bedside. Mindful not to jar any of the fresh bruises, he gingerly sat down on the very edge of the padded stool. “Is something wrong, mom?” Dread was already building within him, his own problems momentarily forgotten about as he worked himself up. “Is the cancer getting worse? Is the chemo not working? Are you in pain? Do you need me to call the hospital?” he bombarded her with questions, looking at her with fearful anticipation._

_“No. No, honey, nothing like that,” she soothed. “I’m okay.” Her hand reached out to him, fingers brushing against his forearm. Startled, he pulled back a little, a shudder running down his back. It didn’t go unnoticed by his mother, her forehead creasing slightly in concern. “I just want to talk to you, though. Check in on you.” Uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking, Jay tugged his sweaty palms between his thighs, closing himself off which only worried her more. “You’ve been acting strange since you came home from school yesterday. You’re quiet and glum, and you barely leave your room.” The thirteen-year-old trapped his upper lip between his teeth. “Is everything okay, honey? Did something happen at school?”_

_Jay lowered his gaze to his lap, brows knitting. What was he supposed to tell her? That his PE teacher had made advances on him yesterday? That the monster had cornered him when he was alone in the shower, butt-naked? That the perv had pinned him down and touched him places he shouldn’t have? He couldn’t tell her that. If he did, she’d find out about the bruises, too, about the beatings he endured at the hand of his father whenever his mother was in the hospital for treatment. She needn’t know about that and she needn’t know about the other stuff either. She had enough to deal with, already. So, he lied. “Everything’s okay, mom.”_

_She searched his face, doubtful. “Are you sure?” He nodded, his bowed head hiding the tears that pricked behind his eyes. Her frail hand cupped his cheek, glad that he didn’t shy away from her touch this time. She gently nudged him to meet her eyes, but he knew she’d see right through his obvious fib if he did. “Jay, look at me. Please,” she begged, and he didn’t have it in him to disappoint her. As soon as she saw his anguished Maui blues, her fatigued hazel irises softened. “Jay, honey. You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” Not everything. “Whatever it is, I’m here for you. You know that don’t you?” she stressed, and he nodded timidly. “So, what’s bothering you?”_

_“Nothing. It’s nothing,” he croaked. “I’m fine, just a little tired.” Forced himself to grin at her in hopes of easing some of her concern. But it remained firmly on her face, oozing from her compassionate eyes as she tilted her head. “Really mom. It’s just a lot of homework lately. That’s all,” he assured, reaching out to grasp her hand, squeezing it tenderly. “I need to get back to it, so…” he trailed off, already pushing himself to stand. “You have chemo tomorrow, you should get some rest, mom.” She smiled, sadness in her eyes as she watched him hover slightly._

_With one final glance, he left the bedroom, the weight of that terrifying secret sitting heavy on his chest, a weight that he wanted nothing more than to get off but would carry for the rest of his life to protect her and everyone else._

…

The memory came so far out of left field that it nearly swept him off his feet. Oh, how much he missed his mom. The delicacy of her tenderness, the profound level of care, the wholehearted kindness and empathy that always radiated off her. Even though she hadn’t been aware of it, she’d been his rock in that immediate aftermath. She’d given him the strength that he so desperately needed to push through just one more day, to endure just one more beating and survive just one more PE class. Though the beatings had seemed like a cake walk compared to the PE class, which he had found himself praying to get away from without being caught in the clutches of that perv. Somehow, she’d always known when he needed her silent comfort the most, asking him to keep her company in an unobtrusive way. He’d give anything to have just one more of those seemingly mundane ‘come here, sit with me’ moments with her and seek out that enchanting unconditional love.

Almost as if she knew that his whole world just now threatened to crash down and bury him, his mom sent from the Heavens what he so desperately needed in this very moment: an offer of that same unquestioning support at the hand of none other than Trudy Platt. Decades after her demise, his mom was still looking out for him, sending him the desk sergeant who despite her brashness was probably the closest thing to a motherly role model he had now. The realization squeezed his heart in a way that words failed to describe, showered him with all kinds of overpowering emotions. There was no way he could reject this one-in-a-lifetime gift.

Stifling a throaty sob, he eventually nodded and breathed a shaky “you’re right,” then followed a relieved Platt into a tiny office he’d never even noticed before. He barely paid attention to the room’s interior – a doll house sized kitchenette on the left wall, a row of blue steel lockers on the right, and an attrite dark oak table with mismatched chairs crammed into the space under the window – just watched the desk sergeant as she went over to the coatrack in the corner and plugged something from the hook.

Before he knew it, a thick fleece jacket was thrust at him. Promptly, a shiver rippled through his body, an icy cold having taken hold of him, and it registered with him then that he was still just in his sodden t-shirt. “Put this on,” Trudy demanded pointlessly since he already pushed his arms through the sleeves. While it was slightly too big on his slender frame, he felt the warmth immediately and couldn’t help but huddle into the soft material. “And sit your skinny ass down, already. Jeez,” the desk sergeant added in fake exasperation from the kitchenette, where she was already sifting through the cupboards. Halstead didn’t have the luxury to wonder how she had gotten over there so fast, a wave of dizziness distracting him. Spots danced behind his lids and he swayed. He really should sit down.

Jay cautiously lowered himself onto one of the chairs, gripping the edge of the table for support. As soon as he sat, he closed his eyes, pressing a thumb and index finger into the sockets to ease some of the increasing pressure behind them. Alas, it didn’t work. The lightheadedness remained an annoying millstone around his neck. Nevertheless, he allowed himself a moment of peace, only moving again when Trudy’s soft timbre reached his ears. “Here, take these.” The detective blinked sluggishly, surprised to not just find her sitting in the chair opposite him but also a glass of water and two tablets on the table in front of him. He looked at her questioningly, brows knitted. “Gravol and Tylenol,” she elaborated, easily reading his mind. “We both know your head is about to explode from trying to realign your entire digestive tract.”

Chuckling, he realized that it indeed felt like that, though it seemed like someone was using his skull as a testing field for throwing hand grenades. The meds were a godsend. “Thanks.” A faint smile played around his lips as he picked the up the pills. Popping them into his mouth, he washed them down with the smallest sip of water, afraid if he drank more it would only start that whole cycle again. It stayed down, though, so he chanced another one, then another, only stopping when the fifth sparked the tiniest flame of queasiness again. Five sips weren’t nearly enough to appease his parched throat, but it would have to do for now.

Trudy watched as he tugged his arms under the table and nestled himself further into the sweater. The item almost swallowed him because of how huge it was. It made him look a lot smaller than his five foot ten and a lot younger than his nearly thirty years, but to even it out, the bone-deep weariness in his eyes from having seen way too much for someone his age made him appear older and wise beyond his years. Whatever he’d seen today seemed to have added yet more to the load he was carrying.

“I heard you caught another nasty one up there.” It was more of an observation than a question, but Jay offered an absentminded noticeable bop of his head, anyway. “Intelligence is catching a lot of sexual assault cases lately, it seems,” she continued. Another imperceptible nod. “If you keep working those, the SVU is going to be unemployed soon.” No reaction this time. “The case involving tender-aged victims again?” she probed, trying to sound nonchalant. The shuddering quake of his Jay’s body was the only answer she needed. Saddened and angry, she shook her head and breathed, “damn, just how many of those monsters are out there?”

Even though it was a rhetorical question, Halstead couldn’t help but utter a hoarse, “too many.” The lump in his throat inflated to a suffocating size, compressing his next words into a strained squeaky whisper. “Way more than we realize.” He would know, was guilty of letting at least three of them walk. Coach Beckett, Lonnie Rodiger, and now this fucking pervert who had left Flynn lying like a ragdoll on a cold shower floor. Three pedophiles, whom he had let get away with it. He had no idea what had happened to his molester, but he was certain his cowardice had sealed the fate of many other kids. The second at least had been brought to justice albeit at the hands of the scumbag’s own father. And the third? Well, good thing was they still had hope to arrest him before yet another child was robbed of its innocence and gullibility.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Platt empathized with his assessment, knowing it did nothing to ease his mind. Instead, she could see just how much that gruesome reality troubled him, when another uncontrollable quiver ran through him. “But at least with you working the case, I know there will be one less to worry about,” she offered a scant consolation. _‘If only that were true,’_ Halstead’s loathsome mind supplied unnecessarily, though the desk sergeant was oblivious to his brooding train of thoughts, was only privy to the haunted look that clouded his usually bright eyes.

Jay caught her observing gaze. Overwhelmed by the genuine concern and compassion he saw in them, he instantly averted his eyes, afraid she’d read something in his that he didn’t want her to. In panicked frenzy, he pushed himself away from the table and into a standing position, relieved to find his legs a little less shaky than before. “I have to get back upstairs. Voight’ll be back soon and he’s going to want answers,” he explained, already walking towards the door but stopped with the hand on the knob. Chewing his lip as the guilt over his abrupt departure, he added a heartfelt “thanks for the jacket and the meds. I appreciate it,” choking up over the realization that this might be his last chance to ever voice his gratitude to the enigmatic Trudy Platt. Before the emotions could spill over, he fled the office, not even bothering waiting for a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next chapter, and, as always, stay safe and healthy!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave kudos and maybe, if you'd like, a comment too.


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